


Imperfect

by sassyjumper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Same-Sex Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Wilson watch the Grammys, and things go downhill from there.  Set in an alternate Season 8-ish time, in which H/W finally make their marriage official.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Sick_Wilson challenge on LJ, wherein Wilson is to suffer some sort of emotional hurt. The idea for this was partly inspired by a post by Srsly-yes, asking whether House thought he was less attractive than Wilson. And then it just kept getting weirder. Sorry.

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh my gawd.” House looked at Wilson, who was doing that annoying thing where he sat too close, in an almost-snuggle. “We could’ve been married by Queen Latifah.”

“Yes,” Wilson affirmed, keeping his eyes on the TV. “If only I’d known of Macklemore’s plans in advance.”

House blinked, momentarily stunned by Wilson’s use of the word _Macklemore._ He quickly recovered, though.

“Really. We could’ve met Madonna instead of Amish Abe.”

“No,” Wilson said, holding up his Hand of No. “Madonna totally creeps me out anymore. That…thing she wears in her mouth.”

“You mean her _grill?_ ”

Wilson shuddered. “Yeah. That. Anyway, you didn’t even want our parents at our wedding. Now you wish we’d had a global audience?”

There was an edge to his voice that betrayed hurt, or some similar feeling. House just stared. Sometimes it was like he and Wilson had just met.

“Nooo. See, what’s happening is, I’m bored. So I’m saying stupid shit to annoy you. You’re supposed to respond with what you believe to be dry wit. I will then skewer you with a devastating comeback.”

Wilson crossed his arms. “Sorry. I guess I’m still a little sensitive about our wedding.”

House’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re still feeling sensitive—”

“ _Not_ there.” Wilson exhaled heavily. “You know what I mean.”

 _Oh, come on._ House groaned. “You cannot still be mad about my verbal faux pas.”

Wilson looked at him innocently. “You mean when you said you didn’t really wanna marry me, but were just succumbing to my manipulations?”

House sighed. “Yeah. That.”

Wilson fake-smiled. “No. I’m not still mad about that.”

“Obviously. Then what’s your problem?”

Wilson got a little twitchy, clearly uncomfortable with this particular nagging opportunity. _How odd,_ House thought, his interest piqued.

“That wasn’t the only thing you said, you know,” Wilson murmured.

House nodded. “I imagine I said more words over the course of a weekend.”

Wilson bit his lip and shook his head, in that way he had. “Do I have to spell everything out for you?”

“If you want me to know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“You don’t remember what else you said?”

House assumed it was a rhetorical question.

Wilson continued to prod. “When we were in bed, having our last”—he gestured between their laps—“before check-out.”

There was a prolonged silence then, so House assumed he was supposed to answer this time.

“I have no idea what you’re babbling about.”

Wilson sighed in defeat. “You—you said I…” His cheeks began to color, which was always pleasing.

“Yes, yes?”

Wilson closed his eyes then spoke in a rush, “You told me I have boobs.”

House barked a laugh. _Seriously?_

“Seriously?” He didn’t even care that he was, technically, giggling. “I don’t remember saying that. But if I did, it’s not really the kinda thing that warrants three months of brooding.” He paused to grin. “Booby-brooding.”

Wilson frowned. “I haven’t been brooding. It just…It bothered me, OK? And I told you it did. And then you—” He growled lowly. “You really don’t remember?”

House shrugged, and Wilson continued to simmer. “You kept at it. When we got home that night, you wouldn’t stop feeling me up.”

House snorted. OK, it was starting to come back to him—but he’d be damned if he was going to indulge Wilson’s idiotic sensitivities.

“So what? I always make fun of your looks. Because you’re funny-looking.”

Wilson pressed his lips together. “Be that as it may, I could’ve done without the body-shaming on our honeymoon.”

House let his head loll against the backrest. This was apparently becoming A Thing.

“Well, your man-boobs are obviously not a big deal to me,” he reasoned. “I haven’t mentioned them in three months, and I’ve allowed you to keep having sex with me.”

“How charitable of you.” Wilson was perilously close to a pout now, and House realized he’d have to change tactics. Because he was not spending the rest of the night next to a six-foot ice princess.

“Look,” he said, adopting a milder tone. “I was probably trying to lighten the mood. If you’ll recall, it was a tense couple days.”

Wilson nodded. “It was. And then we had a good day. And then you had to ruin it.”

House sat up. “Ruin? You’re such a drama queen. It was practically a compliment.”

Wilson raised a pompous eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“You have a cock _and_ boobs,” House informed him. “You’re like my dream come true.”

Wilson glared dangerously, and House prepared for a high-level bitchfest. If he was lucky, he’d be getting angry sex within the hour.

Unfortunately, Wilson just shifted to his Sad Eyes. “Forget it,” he muttered, before pushing to his feet and heading for the bedroom.

House scrambled for a way to get this train back on the angry-sex track, and called out the first words that popped to mind. “You’re gonna miss Nine Inch Nails.”

The only response was the sound of the bedroom door shutting.

 

*******

 

House spent the next morning wondering how he’d landed in the dog house. He’d thought the advantage of being with a guy was, you could say anything. And for the most part, that was true. Usually, he could throw whatever crap he wanted at Wilson, and it was either ignored or deftly lobbed back at him.

But somehow the Great Boob Incident had taken on an enduring significance in Wilson’s freakshow of a mind.

House couldn’t help a little smile as he lazily tossed his red ball from one hand to the other. He did enjoy the fact that he was the only living being who knew how messed up Wilson was.

Yes, that meant other people thought House had all the issues, and Wilson was some kind of martyr for misanthropic cripples. But other people’s opinions meant nothing. Mostly.

“His estrogen level is high.”

House looked up to see Chase breezing in. “Huh. That’s a distinct possibility,” he agreed.

Chase halted in front of his desk and eyed him suspiciously. “You do remember our patient, right?”

_Oh, yeah._

“Sure,” House chirped. “I’m the one who ordered the hormone panel for Mr….Patient.”

He studied Chase for a moment. The guy was sometimes useful for hypothesis-generating…

“Chase, you’re obviously part-woman.”

Chase furrowed his brow. “OK.”

House set the ball on his desk and leaned onto his forearms. “That means you must be body-conscious. Have any of your many, many lovers ever said anything about your manly physique that upset you?”

Chase smirked. “You’re kidding, right?”

_Of course. Smug bastard._

The smirk evolved into a smile of pure evil. “What did you say to Wilson?”

House feigned offense. “What makes you think I said anything? Maybe he hurt _my_ feelings.”

Chase rolled his eyes, and House forged on. “I see your point, though. I have the body of a Greek god. What complaint could he possibly lodge?”

“Right. So our patient is probably still writhing in pain—”

“He’s mad because I made fun of his man-boobs.”

Chase stared, mouth partly open—detracting considerably from his Dr. Pretty-Boy cred. “That’s,” he finally said, “fairly disturbing.”

“Tell me about it. You don’t have your nose in his cleavage on a regular basis.”

Chase held up his hands. “You can stop right there. Let’s talk about our patient, shall we? I think we should do a CT. A big, fat adrenal tumor could explain the abdominal pain and estrogen level.”

House nodded. “Does he have…” He trailed off as his mind took him in another, alarming direction.

“Have what?”

House hauled himself up and lurched past Chase, muttering, “Just do the CT.”

Chase voiced some sort of response, but House was already heading for Wilson’s office, where he threw open the door and pointed his cane at the man behind the desk.

“I want you to get an adrenal carcinoma workup,” he ordered, vaguely registering the elderly woman sitting in front of him.

Wilson spared him a glance, then smiled reassuringly at his patient. “Ignore him, Mrs. Finkelstein. It works for me.”

“No, it doesn’t,” House corrected, limping closer. “I want you to start with a hormone panel. Your boobs could be a sign of elevated estrogen, and that could mean adrenal cancer.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Frankenstein murmured, as Wilson subtly sent eye-daggers of death in his direction.

“House,” he said evenly. “This is not the time.”

“How can this not be the time?” House looked at Mrs. F and made a _Can you believe him?_ face. “You’re an oncologist, sitting at your cancer control station, and I’m talking about tumors.”

“House,” Wilson repeated, jaw tight. “I do not have adrenal carcinoma. And I do not have…boobs.”

He looked at his patient apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Finkelstein. My husband is a bit of an alarmist.” He faux-smiled. “And a huge ass.”

“Are they tender?” House demanded.

Wilson openly glared this time. “Pardon?”

“Your _boobs._ ” What the hell was Wilson’s problem? “It’s hard for me to tell. You’ve always squealed when I bite your—”

“OK.” Wilson virtually sprang to his feet, before rounding his desk and grabbing House’s arm. “You need to go.”

“You’ll get the bloodwork done?” House persisted, as he was none-too-gently escorted to the door.

“Sorry, no.” Wilson gave him a light shove over the threshold. “I have my yearly mammogram at two o’clock.”

House started to express his support, but the door was already slamming in his face.

 

*******

 

“What is it?” Chase asked, sounding winded as he strode into House’s office.

House tapped his fingers on his desk. “He’s really pissed at me now.”

Chase gaped at him. “You paged me because Wilson’s pissed?”

“That’s right.”

Chase sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he acquiesced. “I’ll play. Why is he pissed?”

“I accused him of having adrenal carcinoma.”

Chase squinted, but a moment later clarity dawned on his face. “Because of his alleged man-boobs?”

House almost smiled. “See? You’re smarter than your fashion sense implies.”

“Good news.” Chase crossed his arms. “OK, so what does this have to do with me?”

House leaned back in his chair. “I wanna bounce some ideas off of you. I’m not sure what the remedy is for telling your husband he has breasts, then demanding he undergo a hormone panel.”

“Have you checked Dear Abby’s archives?”

House ignored the remark, because he didn’t have time for shenanigans. “How do I get out of this without admitting any wrongdoing?”

Chase plopped into the seat in front of him. “You really think that’s possible?”

House shrugged. “It has to be. I didn’t do anything wrong. I apparently made an observation about his body that he blew way out of proportion. And then I very legitimately became concerned about his health. I don’t see how I can be faulted.”

Chase nodded. “Fair enough.” He proceeded to chew on his lip, clearly at mental war with himself.

“What?” House pressed.

Chase eyed him briefly, then shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but…I had a similar situation with Cameron once.”

“You thought you detected breasts?”

Chase smirked. “I made a comment that she mistook as a complaint about her cup size. She hardly spoke to me for days.”

House frowned. “How was that a punishment?”

“It was. Do you know what it’s like to live with someone who can radiate disapproval from their skin?”

House pinned him with a stare. “I’m married to Wilson.”

“True,” Chase conceded. “Anyway, I just started dropping little comments to let her know how sexy she was. It wasn’t subtle, but it worked.” He put his elbows on his knees. “Believe it or not, people like to hear that they’re attractive.”

House scowled. _No way._

“Wilson and I do not wax poetic about each other’s looks. That’s off-the-charts gay.”

Chase gave him an incredulous look.

“There are different levels of gay,” House explained impatiently. “We do not coordinate our outfits, or hold hands, or talk about each other’s looks.” He paused. “Unless I’m insulting his. Or sometimes when we’re having sex, we’ll—”

“No,” Chase cut in sternly. “Just—just do it. Tell him his hair looks nice or something.”

“He’ll never buy that,” House objected. “The only time I mention his hair is when it gets too fluffy and Farah Fawcett-y.”

Chase looked thoughtful. “Does he get mad when you do that?”

“No. I think he takes it as a compliment.”

“Well, does he _ever_ get pissed when you rag on his appearance?”

House pondered that. He couldn’t remember Wilson coming unhinged because of comments on his ridiculous eyebrows, lazy eye, pasty skin, or various other flaws.

“No,” he replied confidently.

“Huh.” Chase sat back in his chair. “Sounds like you struck a nerve this time. Maybe Wilson has body-image issues.”

House narrowed his eyes. “He may have boobs, but he’s not a woman.”

Chase huffed a laugh. “You think only women have a hard time accepting their bodies?”

“Please,” House dismissed. “Wilson has never had a hard time offering up his body.”

“That doesn’t mean he likes how he looks,” Chase argued. “He might have deep-seated issues even he doesn’t acknowledge. Do you know if he was overweight as a kid?”

House was momentarily thrown. He actually wasn’t sure. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a single photo of little Jimmy Wilson.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, feeling weirdly inadequate for it. “But when I met him, he had the build of a prepubescent boy, so I doubt it.”

Chase aimed an index finger at him. “Maybe that’s it. He was the runt who got pushed around in the locker room.”

 _God, I hope not._ It would be a huge pain to hunt down all of Wilson’s high school tormentors and ram his cane up their asses.

Chase’s voice roused him from his revenge reverie. “I’m sorry to say it, but I think he just needs to know that you like his body.”

House groaned. “Isn’t that implied every time I try to get his clothes off?”

“No,” Chase said flatly. “That just means you have a need.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” This was getting out of hand. “I didn’t have to marry him to have my needs met. I was getting the milk, but I bought the cow anyway.”

“Uh, you might want to avoid that phrase when you talk to him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” House griped. “You can go away now. But thanks for…well, nothing.”

“Anytime,” Chase muttered, rising to his feet.

As he walked out, he paused in the doorway and glanced over his shoulder. “House. Just say something positive. It won’t kill you.”

Watching Chase disappear down the hall, House had to admit the bastard was right. Being positive was unlikely to prove fatal. The odds of success, however, were slim to none.

 

*******

 

House leaned against the doorway and eyed Wilson as he stood at the kitchen sink, earnestly scrubbing a pan he’d used to whip up a roasted-vegetables-and-quinoa concoction. House had eaten it without complaint—which was his way of apologizing for the adrenal carcinoma thing. Wilson had ignored the matter entirely, which was his way of accepting the apology.

Still, the atmosphere was civil but cool, which meant Wilson hadn’t gotten over the central issue. Whatever that was.

Standing there, House realized this could be the perfect chance to say something nice, since he wouldn’t have to actually look Wilson in the face.

 _That’s doable,_ he told himself as he sidled up behind Wilson and put his hands on his shoulders.

Wilson immediately stilled. “What are you doing?” he asked House’s reflection in the window.

“Nothing.” He began to knead the obviously tense muscles under his hands.

“I’m too tired tonight,” Wilson protested, but his voice was more weary than warning.

“Get your mind out of the gutter.” House kept his tone light. “I’m just…doing this.”

Wilson didn’t respond, but he also didn’t go back to his chores. So House took that as a green light to continue. A few seconds into the massage, Wilson hissed softly and let his chin drop to his chest.

“Yeah. Right there,” he encouraged.

As House focused his fingertips on a particularly tight area of trapezius, he debated what he should say. According to Chase, it just needed to be something positive about Wilson’s body. That shouldn’t be too hard.

He took a deep breath. “Your shoulders are…broad,” he heard himself say.

Wilson looked up at their reflections. “Huh?”

“Broad. Your shoulders.”

“Um,” Wilson said. “Oh-kay.”

House rubbed the knotted muscle a little harder. “They’re, uh, sturdy,” he ventured.

Wilson stood up straight. House didn’t need to see his confused expression in the window; his eyebrow movement alone generated a palpable force. “Are you,” Wilson said hesitantly, “trying to compliment me?”

House balked, unsure whether the truth or a lie would work better here.

Wilson sighed. “Well, stop. It’s creepy.”

House dropped his arms by his sides. “Fine. Because your shoulders are totally not sturdy.”

Without even a glance back, Wilson resumed his dish duties, and House just stared. As much as he loved not-complimenting Wilson, he couldn’t deny the frustration building. Apparently, he couldn’t ridicule Wilson’s body or give it phony props.

House rubbed at his thigh. “I’m gonna take a bath. A really long one.”

Wilson mumbled something in acknowledgement, but he didn’t hear it. He was already limping away.

 

*******

 

By the time Wilson came to bed, House was deep into a report in _Neurocase_ —though not so deep that he couldn’t peer over the top of his glasses as Wilson stripped down to his boxers and put on a t-shirt.

He was careful to face away the whole time, House noted.

“You should read this case report,” he said casually. “The patient developed hyper-empathy after they removed a piece of amygdala to treat her epilepsy.”

Wilson made a non-committal noise, but then turned to him, looking thoughtful. “Wait. Shouldn’t that make a person less empathetic?”

House bit back a smile. “You’d think,” he agreed. “That’s what’s so fascinating.”

Wilson nodded then padded over to the bed. Once under the covers, he turned onto his side, again facing away from House. “Are you gonna be reading much longer?” he mumbled.

House rolled his eyes at the not-so-subtle hint. But instead of arguing, he decided to be indulgent.

“Nope.” He set his journal and glasses on the nightstand and turned off the lamp.

Wilson made a _mmm_ sound, and House considered his options. He could let this go entirely; Wilson would get over himself, after all. Alternatively, he could try to say nice words again. But why choose the path of certain failure?

So he went with option three, turning onto his left side and tentatively curling around his bedmate. Wilson didn’t press his ass back in invitation, as he was wont to do. But he didn’t resist, either.

_OK._

Emboldened, House slowly slid his fingertips under Wilson’s t-shirt, only to be thwarted by a hand clamping onto his.

“If you’re thinking of looking for lumps, don’t bother. I’m all clear.”

“You need a second opinion,” House murmured into Wilson’s ear.

The grip on his hand tightened. “Just go to sleep.”

House couldn’t help growling in annoyance as he rolled onto his back. “Oh, come on. How long are you gonna keep up this hurt act? I said I was sorry.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, not with _words._ ”

The bed shifted. “Oh, sorry. Did I miss your Kabuki apology?”

“I’m sorry, OK?” House burst out. “I’m sorry I ever mentioned your bodacious rack.”

That earned him one of Wilson’s _huh-hohs._ “Great. Apology accepted.”

House turned to look at Wilson’s profile. “What is with you? You forgave me more easily when I got out of prison.”

No response.

“Well?”

“I don’t know,” Wilson muttered.

But House wasn’t having it. “Yes, you do,” he pushed, though he wasn’t sure why he was advocating for a bitch session.

Wilson sighed. “House, just…It’s stupid.”

“I’m sure. Tell me anyway.”

Another sigh. “I dunno. I’ve just always been self-conscious about…Y’know. Being naked.”

House pulled a face, even though it wouldn’t be seen. “You’re self-conscious about everything. And you sure get naked a lot for a guy who doesn’t like it.”

“I don’t like being seen—or analyzed—when I’m naked,” Wilson began, then trailed off. “You know what? Never mind. This is embarrassing.”

“Which is why I’m enjoying it so much.”

“Yeah,” Wilson grumbled. “And that’s the other thing. I’ve never been with someone who openly mocked my body. So when you did, it hurt. Satisfied?”

House actually flinched at that. Gay marriage was apparently making him soft. Who knew?

And yet, there was a part of him that wasn’t feeling so much soft and gooey as prickly and pissed. That part flared to the surface.

“Oh, give me a break,” he groused. “You expect me to feel sorry for you? You look ten years younger than me. You have a full head of hair. And, oh, you’re not missing a giant chunk of thigh.”

“Ah,” Wilson said, in that irritating _ah_ voice. “I forgot I have no right to ever feel bad, because you’ll always have me beat in the misery stakes.”

“So glad we have an understanding.”

“Fantastic.”

They lay in silence then, for a long while—so long that House thought Wilson might have somehow drifted off. He angled his head to look, and could see Wilson blinking at the ceiling.

 _Idiot._ How could he think he was unattractive? He’d had women, and a few men, falling all over him most of his adult life.

On the other hand, this weird hang-up might help explain a few things, like why Wilson was so eager to please in bed—with the lights off, House had to admit. Maybe he was, partly, trying to distract from his imagined shortcomings in the nudity department.

“You’re an idiot,” House said, but without any malice. “You really think there’s something wrong with how you look?”

Wilson didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

House was going to speak again, but Wilson beat him. “Why did I ever bring this up?” he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know there’s almost no chance of this happening, but can you just drop it?”

“No.” House's curiosity was piqued, so there was no turning back.

Wilson exhaled heavily. “What do you want me to say?”

“Did the other kids call you fatty-fatty two-by-four?”

“Uh, no.”

“Did they kick sand in your face?”

“Again, no. I just—I’ve always looked like the guy who sits around and reads. Even when I played tennis, I was the gangly one who needed SPF 50. Then there was med school, and Danny, and”—Wilson sighed—“I stopped taking care of myself.”

“Untrue,” House objected. “No one does hair care like you. You’re the Vidal Sassoon of medicine.”

“Yeah, well, play up your attributes, right? Can I go to sleep now?”

“Not just yet,” House replied brightly. “So you got soft and squishy. If that’s your biggest bodily problem, I’d say you got off lucky.”

“Y’know, I wonder if they do elective amygdala removals. Because that empathy thing…”

House ignored the remark. “I’m balding, I have a number of chins under this stubble, and you’ve probably noticed the grotesque deformity on my leg. I say, it’s fortunate we found each other. We can grow increasingly disgusting together, for the rest of our lives.”

“Perfect,” Wilson said wearily. “Let’s leave it at that, then.”

He rolled onto his side, but House kept looking at the outline of his back. If he were honest, he might admit that part of him wanted Wilson to think he was less-than-desirable—to dim the chances of wandering.

But House could stand only so much honesty when it came to _emotions,_ and he had something more pressing to say.

“Here’s how dumb you are,” he muttered to Wilson’s back. “There were three-thousand people at that convention, and I only noticed you.”

He mentally cringed at the painful sentimentality, but at least it was the truth.

Wilson lay perfectly still and silent, and House wondered what was running through that funhouse of a mind. He was about to give up and roll over when Wilson finally spoke. “Well. I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

House sighed. “Good thing. People might think I was kinda pervy.”

Wilson huffed a little laugh—the first geniune one in a couple days.

“I’m sorry,” House said quickly, hoping to slip it in without a lot of fanfare.

Again, silence. House wasn’t sure if Wilson was being stubborn or was just stunned. But then Wilson flipped onto his back. “OK,” he said simply, to the ceiling.

“OK?”

“Yeah.”

House nodded in the dark, a little skeptical but willing to accept the possibility that Wilson wasn’t lying.

“So, I don’t have to see if Macklemore also arranges gay divorces?”

“I think we can leave him out of this for now.” Wilson took a deep breath. “It’s late. That’s enough pillow talk.”

Despite Wilson’s casual words, House could feel some tension coming from his body, even without touching him. He was obviously still uncomfortable. But then, House reasoned, he’d spent his whole life feeling awkward in his own skin. That was unlikely to change with a “sorry.”

So House did the only thing he could. He inched a little closer and threw an arm across Wilson’s belly. A hand settled on his forearm, but this time it was accepting. And that’s how he fell asleep.

 

 

 

  _—End_


End file.
